


Then Will Come Soft Rains

by Loudest_Voice



Category: Persona 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-31
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:24:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loudest_Voice/pseuds/Loudest_Voice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Shadow Annihilation Force's Japan's greatest joke, but I suppose that fits really well since I'm supposed to be a Fool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Then Will Come Soft Rains

**Author's Note:**

> Title stolen from one of Ray Bradbury's poems.

They say that the fog is made up of the Shadows trying to eat the whole world alive. 

The closer this train gets to Inaba, the more aggressive the fog seems to get. By now, the windows are covered with a thin film of grey musk that masks whatever scenery we’re passing through. I haven’t seen the sky in what feels like weeks even though it was sunny when I boarded the train. The air feels heavier when it passes through my nostrils. Wet too, like the fog’s slowly seeping through the glass and trying to suffocate me. It’s a fanciful thought—how can _fog_ be "trying" to do anything?—but I can’t chase it out of my mind. If it isn’t the fog picking us all off like we have flashing neon targets on our foreheads, then what _is?_

I’ve been on this train for two days now, trying my best to ignore the fearful excitement my fellow passengers aren’t able to hide. And the acrid smell of vomit. I’m not having much luck ignoring either. Not all puke is created equal, I’ve found. Whenever I manage to get use to the stink, someone else decides to throw up. They gave us plastic bags to hurl into, but almost everyone has ignored them. Maybe it’s the greatest rebellion we can manage. We’ll let them send us to our deaths, but they’ll have no choice but to clean our vomit. I don’t think I’d be using the bags either.

Even though I’ve personally haven’t thrown up, I’m trying not to hold it against all the other passengers. Most of them are around my age—teenagers with gangly limbs and awkward features still trying to settle on a definitive arrangement. It’s normal for them to be scared. _I’m_ scared. Besides, it’s not like I know _why_ I haven’t gotten nauseous yet, so I can't take credit for my composure. If it can be called that at all.

At first there were a few grownups among us—a stern teacher who’d done her best to keep order, a mechanic who’d spent the whole trip glaring at the bored guards protecting us (keeping us from bolting), and even a retired boxing champion. They’re all gone now. Only the paunchy, balding accountant who’d started out with watery eyes and shaking hands remains, but he isn’t looking any better than he did two days ago. He isn’t looking any _worse_ though, which is more than can be said for most of us.

The boy sitting in front of me dyed his hair flaming red at some point before being selected. He’d started the trip talking about how he was going to take out a hundred Shadows before the year ended, and now he can’t stay awake for more than two hours at a time. He threw up his last meal too. Granted, it wasn’t a _good_ meal, (white bread, thin butter, beef jerky, and lukewarm water) but still . . . I think he’ll be sent back home at the next checkpoint. A shame for him, especially because he’d sounded so excited at first and we’re almost there.

 _There_ being Inaba. The sleepy town where it’d all started. For Japan, anyway. It’s hard to say where the Shadows are from, but I find it hard to believe that one of them wondered from Japan all the way to say . . . California. Or Canada. Or Chile. Though what do _I_ know? Maybe they did.

Either way, Inaba’s the worst place in Japan.

Most people live and die without ever seeing a full-blown Shadow—plenty of Wisps, yes, and maybe even a few almost-corporeal blobs of darkness—but Inaba’s teeming with the things. Besides Yasogami Base (which used to be Yasogami High School once, or so I hear), there’s nothing there still living but mutated fish and wolves driven mad by the fog.

Anyway, it might sound like I’m looking down on redhead, but I’m really not. No one else in the train is doing any better than him. Every ten minutes or so, I hear hiccups from the seat behind mine and I can’t even tell if they’re coming from the same person or not. Hopefully they _are_ coming from a single passenger; otherwise the soft hum of small talk that’d annoyed me yesterday has been replaced by the occasional aborted sob.

If only our tablets and phones hadn’t been confiscated . . . Something like Tetris might’ve distracted us for weeks.

I hope I’m doing a better job of keeping the fear out of my demeanor, but I doubt I am. Every once in a while, my hands curl into fists without my conscious direction, and then I look at the guards. What for, I can’t say. I don’t hate them. Or at least, I didn’t two days ago.

Now their bright yellow uniforms make something in the back of my eyes smart incessantly. The bright cloth seems to catch what little light is coming from the weak bulbs attached to the train roof and reflect it back at the world like a beacon. The metallic sheen on the yellow bottoms loves to glint brightly whenever the guards fidget or shift. I bet the Shadows have attacked them just to blot out the garish visual.

And why do they have _katana_ and not _guns?_

There isn’t much information about what the so-called Shadow Annihilation Force actually does, but it’s beyond insulting to think that the entire world is being defended with weapons from before the Industrial Revolution. Or maybe it’s just the Japanese SAF that uses swords? For all I know, other countries arm their soldiers with machine guns and grenades.

But the _physical_ nature of the weapon is not important so—

Wait.

How do I know that?

The guard I must have been staring at for a long while turns his brown eyes towards me. He smiles. Since I’d just been thinking that he looks dumb, I turn towards the fog-moistened window and hope that he doesn’t see me blush. It’s not his fault. None of this is his fault. He doesn’t look that much older than me and the Shadows appeared when my parents were little kids.

For once, I welcome the sound of the cart door sliding open. Even more surprisingly, the thin screech of rusting wheels being rolled in is a cause for celebration. It’s unlikely that the guard would’ve paid me any more attention even if a medic _hadn’t_ conveniently shown up for another round of exams, but now that she has the guard _definitely_ won’t pay me any more attention. He has to guard someone more important than frightened recruits now.

“This’ll be the last checkpoint before we reach the base,” the nurse says in her now familiar, tired voice. When I turn to look at her, she’s already slipping on a pair of blue latex gloves over her capable hands. Like almost everything on the train, her small cart is a metallic grey that seems to blend with the walls framing it. “Let’s try to make this go smoothly, now.”

The accountant and the girl sitting next to him have to go forward first. Two days ago, that girl had sported a beautiful crown of long, golden blond curls. She still has golden curls, but they’re looking much less picture-perfect. The ones on the left side of her head are flattened, advertising which side of her face she’s been sleeping on. The accountant walks so dejectedly that the girl sighs quickly and then strides forward, offering the medic a pale, slim hand. With a chuckle, the medic begins her exam in practiced motions.

First, she pricks the girl’s left middle finger with a handheld device that looks like an old cell phone with a tiny screen—also grey—and then waits a few seconds for the numbers I now know will appear on said small screen. Many passengers have been sent back because the medic doesn’t like whatever that little gadget tells her. It apparently approves of the bond girl tough, because the medic nods and puts it down.

I look away and continue my efforts to see through Inaba’s thick fog. The physical exam’s routine to me by now, so there’s no need to pay attention.

Next, the medic will examine the girl’s visual acuity with a special set of goggles that show the board school nurses use to check kids’ eyesight every year. I memorized it when I was l little, so I could cheat on that part of the test. If I wanted to go to Inaba, that is. Which I don’t. I bet other people try to cheat on it. Like Redhead, though I don’t see him having enough forethought to memorize much of anything.

Then the nurse will measure the girl’s blood pressure, heart rate, and lung capacity. Those test no one can cheat on, of course. I don’t know how someone would anyway. Or on the next part of the exam. The nurse will use a small hammer (I suppose it’s not called that) to gently test the girl’s reflexes. Is there a way for someone to stop their knee from extending when someone taps that nerve? Besides getting poisoned by Shadow fog, I mean.

If the patient cooperates, the exam doesn’t take more than five minutes. I know this because the same nurse has put me through the same exam five times already, and I made sure to cooperate. For the most part, all the passengers in this train have cooperated.

“No!” cries the accountant suddenly, prompting me to look over at him. His back is to me, but I can imagine that his eyes are wide and pleading. “I’m _sick!_ I can’t _be_ here, can’t you see?” Strangely enough, it’s the strongest I’ve ever heard him sound.

“You’re fine,” the nurse tells him, gesturing towards his seat. The blond girl is already sitting on hers and staring out at the fog like it’s the most interesting sight in the world.

 _“Please!”_ insists the accountant. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that Redhead has begun to fidget. “I’m obviously a coward! Of what use could I _possibly_ be for an army?”

I’m sixteen years old and I’ve never held a weapon in my life. Of what use could _I_ be? I doubt the Shadows will be intimidated by my skill with a kitchen knife.

_They’d be terrified of a kitchen knife in our hands._

“Just return to your seat,” says the nurse, her slim eyebrows furrowing.

I decide that her words are distracting me from my own thoughts. And the thing in my head _is_ me. It’s important to remember that.

The accountant raises his arm but the guard standing near the nurse steps in between them. “Go back to your seat or I’ll do exactly as you like and throw you out into the plain myself.”

For a second, I’m certain that the accountant will argue. His chest appears to inflate and I think he must have opened his mouth but—

“—damn it all, just sit _down!_ ” snaps the nurse. “The only way any of us will leave Inaba’s in a coffin!”

And the accountant strides back to his seat and buries his face in his hands. As the next pair of passengers moves forward, thin sobs are wheezing from between his stubby fingers. The blond girl tries her best to fuse with the window, like the man’s lack of control is contagious. Maybe it is. I read somewhere (in one of the pamphlets loitering the street leading to my high school—a type that can land people in the Ward if they’re caught reading it) that despair _is_ contagious.

_The shame spreads and breeds Shadows._

By the time the nurse is finished with the next two passengers, the accountant is mumbling something about unfairness. I don’t know if despair can breed Shadows, but I can offer one example of it breeding anger. Of course it’s all unfair. What does the old man _expect?_

“I came in my daughter’s place,” the accountant mumbles suddenly. Then he raises his voice and stares at the guards. I can’t see his face, but I know he’s glaring. “You bastards already took my son!”

Finally, one of the guards has had enough. With a frustrated snort, he takes a long step towards the accountant and unsheathes his katana. Someone sucks in a deep breath, but the accountant stares at the guard without flinching. It almost looks like courage, but somehow I know the man’s just trying to commit suicide. The guard must know it too because he simply strikes the accountant’s forehead with the hilt of his sword.

When the accountant crumbles, falling half on the blond girl, she screeches and pushes him away before scrambling off her seat and onto the floor.

“This _is_ unfair!” she heaves out, bringing her knees to her chest and pushing her back against the train, seemingly unconcerned that her new position lets us all see the red lace under her skirt. Two days ago, someone might’ve made a sleazy comment about that.

“Just leave her there,” the nurse tells the guard before gesturing at the next two passengers.

“The Lottery system’s stupid,” someone behind me mumbles lowly. “Why not just take people who _want_ to go?”

Because only people resistant to the fog’s . . . whatever it is the fog does can hope to fight Shadows. The general population’s not given any details. For our peace of mind, supposedly. I think they don’t tell us anything because they don’t actually _know_ anything in the first place. I said as much to my mother once. She slapped me. It’s the only time she’s ever hit me.

 _Listen to me, Souji. Listen_ carefully. _Don’t air your grievances about the government out loud ever. Not even in your own home, or you risk babbling about it to your friends and then you’ll spend the rest of your life at the Ward._

Funny thing is, I hadn’t meant it as a _grievance_ back then. I was too young for any of that. I’d just been making an observation.

“The damned Lottery’s rigged anyway,” a guy sitting behind me whispers. “Ever notice that rich people rarely get unlucky.”

Well, there’s not that many rich people to begin with. Not that I _disagree_ with the complaint, necessarily, but I feel the need to acknowledge the importance of demographics and sample sizes at least privately.

“Don’t be an idiot,” the girl sitting next to him says. “Rich people get picked _plenty._ There’s just not that many of them to begin with.” Like I said. “The system’s rigged for _smart_ people.”

It’s supposed to be and we’re not supposed to know about it. Performing extremely well in certain subjects (Mathematics, any of the Sciences, and Verbal Reasoning were the big three) could get your number taken out of the roster that went into the Lottery. Not that you were ever told what your scores on anything were. To keep you from arguing about them, I suppose, or from competing too viciously with your classmates. The last thing anyone wants is to give anyone more reasons to stress out.

Not knowing anything is supposed to keep us happy. Huge storm is coming? Tell everyone to stay home because the train lines are undergoing routine maintenance. Running water suddenly gets cut off? Obviously, something needs to be repaired and not because a Shadow attacked the water reservoir. Go to the doctor? Don’t expect to be told about any horrible disease while it's still asymptomatic. Your school or workplace suddenly gets closed down? It’s being cleaned, of course. Just hope that the cleaning won’t take so long that you’ll run out of money or fall so far behind on your studies that you can’t hope to pass the national standardized exams. And anyone who fails those exams . . .

“I failed my tests because I couldn’t go to school for _seven months_ this year,” complains the same boy.

“You’d have failed regardless,” the girl tells him. In front of us, the next pair of passengers gets up and starts shuffling towards the nurse.

“And how can we win this war if all the smart people cozy up in some lab while the rest of us feed the Shadows?” demands the boy.

I don’t know. I never planned to win any war, though I know my scores were significantly above average. It isn’t hard to notice where every student falls on the grades hierarchy even though test scores aren’t public anymore. No matter how much they try to hide it, teachers focus most of their energy on the kids who do well on the national exams.

Teachers always focused on me, sometimes so much so that my classmates whispered under their breath.

_Seta’s a goddamned genius._

_He’s going to fuck up our curve this year. Again._

_Isn’t he great at science? Maybe he’ll design an anti-Shadow weapon one day._

_He’ll have all the time in the world, I guess, ‘cause I doubt the SAF’ll risk his precious brain in the frontlines._

I don’t know if I’m a genius, I probably _did_ fuck up the curve, I suppose I'm comparatively adept at science, I have no interest in Shadows or weapons, and I didn’t think I’d ever lose the Lottery. In fact, I never did. If Emiri hadn’t suffered a breakdown, I’d be in class right now practicing how to sleep with my eyes open while my teacher droned on about something I’d learned a long time ago. But Emiri _did_ have a breakdown and I . . .

I look out the window again, trying to fight against the rush of memories. I lose.

For a moment, the fog seems to be the same piss-yellow color as Emiri’s eyes were that day, and the outline of a floating sphere with frighteningly sharp teeth is visible through the smog. Someone screams—faraway and hollow enough that I know I’m remembering the sound, though I don't think I _consciously_ hear much in our classroom—and I desperately try to think of a way to calm Emiri down.

In the relative safety of the train, I can think of dozens of things I could’ve told Emiri. I stare at the fog and imagine her face; imagine myself standing in front of her calm and strong. _I didn’t know you felt that way. I’m sorry for not paying more attention. The rumors about me and Yayoi aren’t true. I promise I’ll listen to you_ after _we’ve found out how to send the Shadows away._ I do _see you_. Emiri’s round face is in the fog now, framed by our cracked classroom window. I’m not on the train anymore.

Emiri offers me a small, shy smile—the same one she’s been sending my way since her mother asked me to help with her homework when we were both in fourth grade. I walk forward to offer her my hand and she takes it just as her eyes return to their usual, warm brown. The Shadows that came out of her mouth, ears, nostrils— _pores_ —all vanish without any sound or fanfare. Even the crack in the window behind Emiri’s head disappears, like calming her down wound back the clock and eliminated all the damage her despair caused.

Later, when we’re both in the hospital (even in my fantasies, I know there’s no way they _wouldn’t_ have taken us to the hospital) we find out that no other students were injured. Emiri’s Shadows weren’t violent because—well, _Emiri_ would _never._ The SAF is mad, of course, but everyone likes Emiri so we put in a good word for her. They agree to take no further action (not to send any of us to the Ward) but they’ll definitely do something drastic if they ever see a Shadow around either of us again. They never do.

Years pass by in my mind. Emiri and I graduate high school without any problems. We go to Management together, both feeling nervous about what our placement will be, but neither particularly _scared._ I place into Enrichment (so what if my skills in Mathematics would be more useful? I like Literature) so I can become a librarian. Emiri ends up at one of the day care centers (she loves children so she’s beside herself with joy). We leave Management with big, relieved smiles in our faces.

Who knows? Maybe I find out that I _do_ want Emiri like that down the line. The shallow sixteen-year-old in me starts making some changes. I make her a little taller, get rid of the freckles on her nose and cheeks, her hair becomes longer and thicker, her breasts larger, etc. It’s not even too far-fetched. Emiri hadn’t finished growing up after all. By the time we’re ready to get married, she looks like a black-haired version of the blond girl sitting next to the accountant.

My mother and her parents are at our small wedding, beaming at both of us. Nanako—it’s too painful to even think Nanako’s _name,_ so I stop there. Instead I fast-forward again and imagine my honeymoon with Emiri. We’d have gone to the beach and feasted on a watermelon while staring out at the sunset. Neither of us ever sees a Shadow again.

“Hey, Grey-hair!” They guy sitting behind me whisper-yells, startling me out of my daydream. Beautiful Emiri’s beaming face vanishes from my mind instantly. “Your turn!”

Courtesy prompts me to look back and nod in thanks, but my lips refuse to stretch into anything resembling a smile. Thankfully, the boy who woke me up is not looking my way anymore.

I stand up slowly, grimacing at the momentary tremble in my knees. Suddenly, it feels like I’ve been sitting for two years instead of two days. I’m grateful that Redhead’s shuffling ahead of me (both the people sitting next to us were sent back yesterday) because I can make it look like I’m walking slowly because he needs to use all the seats for support. Though it’s common for people to be ill when they first get to Inaba, I don’t want to look weak in front of the guards.

I’m thinking (arguing with myself) that it’d actually be _better_ to look weak in front of the guards when Redhead finally manages to drag himself to the nurse’s cart. He has to reach out for said cart’s handle because he can’t really stand without support and the nurse set up a few steps away from the first set of seats. She looks at Redhead with furrowed eyebrows, disregarding me altogether. I’m sure Redhead’s about to be sent home.

She reaches for Redhead’s left arm without saying a word, straightening his wrist so she can prick the pad of his middle finger with the grey contraption. Redhead actually winces and, for some reason I can’t adequately explain, my muscles tense. The thing in my head—the one I swore didn’t exist the entire time I was lying in the hospital bed—braces itself for a fight. When the nurse’s brown eyes narrow at the number in her little screen, I take a step forward.

“No good,” says the nurse, sparing a glance towards one of the guard. “He’ll have to go back.”

She looks down at her medical chart and moves to add something to what I assume is Redhead’s name, not noticing that Redhead is reaching for her. A part of me feels scared, but I reach out and grab a hold of Redhead’s arm anyway, stupidly wondering how painful it was to get the flame tattoo on his shoulder.

What happens next was probably over in the blink of an eye, but to I know I’ll be examining the minute details for a long time to come.

Redhead snarls the moment my fingers touch his upper arm. I feel the moment his attention is shifts entirely towards me and, even though later I won’t recall seeing him move, I lean back to dodge a punch.

Dimly, I think that Redhead’s suddenly packing quite a precise and strong amount of aggression for someone who couldn’t stand unaided just a second ago. When he tries to hit me with his other fist, I take a hold of it and push him against the train wall, left to the cart. He snarls again when I push his hands against his chest, and then his eyes meet mine.

They’re bright yellow, like he’s been possessed by a mad wolf.

 _If someone’s eyes turn yellow, it’s already too late. Run._ Everyone’s been saying as much to me my entire life.

I do _intend_ to run, but my legs don’t obey me. Black mist escapes Redhead’s nostrils as an image of crackling lightning crosses through my mind. My palms begin to burn— _his Shadow’s burning out of him _—and I wonder why I’m not panicking. It feels like there’s static rushing over my skin; like I’m a battery preparing to discharge. I hope that lightning’s effect—__

—the guard springs into action and slashes a knife through the side of Redhead’s neck. The world’s still moving slowly enough that I see a thin, red line bloom where the knife cut flesh before blood rushes out, spraying the guard's chin and neck.

And my hands. My arms. My face. For a second, the scent of metal overpowers the stink of vomit. My heart rate finally accelerates and I suck in a short, gasping breath. Time begins moving at a normal pace, but Redhead still seems to crumble to the floor too slowly.

Someone—another passenger—starts screaming. “Be _quiet_!” bellows the guard at the other end of our train cart, not even waiting until the shout is done. “The last thing we need is more assholes freaking out!”

I gasp, struggling against simultaneous waves of fear, disgust, and rage. My eyes squeeze shut because I desperately want block out the sight of Readhead’s now brown but _dead_ eyes. It just serves to highlight how the blood on my face’s beginning to itch. I stumble backwards until my back hits the train's wall and my knees give out. A list of several blood-borne communicable diseases _(HIV, Hepatitis, hemorrhagic fevers . . .)_ flashes through my mind, so I bring my hands to my face, intending to wipe the blood away.

“It’s all right,” somebody tells me gently. The nurse. It took me a second to recognize her voice, maybe because I’ve never heard her trying to be gentle. “I’m going to clean the blood, all right?” While she gently rubs my face with alcohol soaked gauzes, I keep my eyes closed and practice the meditation techniques everyone is taught in preschool.

_Breathe in. Breathe out. Let the feelings wash over you. Acknowledge and accept them. You can never control your feelings, only what you do about them. If your feelings are destructive, you can choose to do nothing at all._

I push the back of my head against the train and, while keeping my eyes closed, I breathe in deep. I acknowledge that the scent of vomit makes me feel angry and disgusted and accept that there's nothing I can do about it. The nurse pricks my left index finger and I'm proud that I feel nothing about it.

"You're fine," she tells me, so I open my eyes and stare at her light brown eyes; at the mole on the upper left side of her chin. Does she really believe that? "Let's get you up," she continues, sliding under my left shoulder. Though I'm surprised, I do need her help getting up. A guard's still hovering close but the nurse gestures at him to stay away. "Try to hold your own weight," she tells me.

It's more of a struggle than I would've like, but I slowly stop leaning my weight on the nurse's shoulder. My knees almost give out again when I spot Redhead's corpse, which makes the nurse grunt. "Get rid of that!" she snaps at the guard and, while he radios for "body disposal at cart thirteen", I'm glad that I've gone out of my way not to learn anyone's name.

The nurse escorts me the last few steps to the first pair of seats adjacent to Accountant and Blond Girl's seat (they're empty now, like most of the cart) and I realize that almost everyone's silent and staring at me. As I fall on the seat and lean my head against the misted-over window, I'm grateful that I've never particularly cared about others' opinion of me. Life in Inaba's going to be hard enough as it is.

I'm sure that getting attached to people would only make everything worse.


End file.
